


Scapula

by foxmulder_whereartthou



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aristocracy, Character Death, Class Differences, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Gen, Gun Violence, Murder-Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24313810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxmulder_whereartthou/pseuds/foxmulder_whereartthou
Summary: You've finally kicked and screamed your way into high society; into the masquerade.The stench of the artificial is thick in the air but the way they look at you - as if you're one of them - is more satisfying than you could've ever imagined.Although you originally came here for a night of fun, you quickly realise there's some business to attend to....
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Scapula

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hecksalmonids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hecksalmonids/gifts).



> wrote this for my good bro!! it originally started as a trans allegory fic but quickly morphed into its own thing. im happy with it, and i hope you are too :)

Tonight is your night, you decide. Every movement you make is precise - calculated - as you clip closed your earrings, smooth out your skirts, and admire your reflection. You’re a full-length masterpiece, and the light in the room, softened by the moon outside your window, compliments you perfectly. It’s been so long since you’ve been able to truly revere your own image, and now you’re at your peak, the stars in your eyes blending in with the clear night sky. 

A bell rings, the chime breaking your train of thought, and you tie your mask around your eyes with the precision of a tailor, the ribbon folding and sliding against the fabric of your gloves. 

It’s time. 

When you arrive, fashionably late, your dress spilling out of the carriage, the ballroom is already bustling with the elite; aristocratic voices, their dialect worryingly,  _ noticeably _ different to your own, reaching your ears. However, once you pull yourself up to full height, putting their opinions of you out of mind, the upper-class girls with their boyfriends perched on the fence turn their gaze to you - seeing you in a way you feel as if you’ve never been seen before. The looks on their faces give you the courage to climb the steps, and you allow the doorman to announce your presence, your expression that of a goddess, delicately and yet effortlessly poised, serene. 

Tonight, you belong here. You always have, but only now, only after everything that’s happened to you, could you accept this invitation. While once the wild, wonderful, meaningless world of vanity fair felt like a warzone of gossip, of high-end clothing and whispered secrets holding up the walls, you have integrated yourself into the system. Everyone’s heads turn in your direction, their minds only on you. While once that concept would have filled you with fear, tonight, you hold your head high, and, alone and free, waltz into the masquerade.

* * *

Idle pleasures are enjoyable on their own, but even more so when shared with others. Red in tooth and claw, you clambered your way up here. Now you’re finally a part of this strange, metaphysical society, you notice the little things - drunk teenage boys in the bathroom, closer than they should be, the shoes abandoned in the gutter, torn fabric and blood streaking the walls, as well as the high balcony. 

If this ballroom was a palace - which it could be, in all of it’s ornate glory, intricate in style yet simple in purpose - the high balcony would be the throne. Peering eyes peel you from the dancefloor and rip you apart, tearing you into a thousand pieces only to sew you back together with the gentle hand of a mother - doing all this with only a glance. 

Despite everything you’ve come to know, here, draped in gold and silver and newfound conviction, you feel as if you must reach that ledge, even if you must scale the walls with your bare hands. That spot belongs to you, and only you, and it’s as if the gods themselves beckon you from the painted ceiling, the only thing that sits higher than the balcony.

You find, however, that this is a monumentally easy task.

In your short time being a part of the crème de la crème, you realise, as long as you look regal enough, stay confident, and exchange a few choice words with the staff, you can go anywhere. It’s pathetic, and although the system gets you where you need to go, it leaves a sour taste in your mouth that you can never quite shake until you’re standing before the double doors. You could’ve never dreamed of reaching for the handle before now, the door knocker staring you down, a lioness guarding her pride and her territory. 

You’ve never cared much for overbearing boundaries, especially those set by those who do not deserve them, and so you look the foul creature in the eye as you enter the lion’s den.

In an instant, her eyes flick to yours, meeting you halfway. She doesn’t deserve halfway, not even a sliver, and you stride towards her, your heart on your chest and your eyes full of certainty. Neither of you waver, standing - or in her case, sitting, swathed in the velvet of the chair, like armour - your ground. 

“And to what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, her voice nonchalant, buttery in it’s smoothness, sliding over you and sending an involuntary shiver up your spine. She’s glorious, an emperor butterfly in all connotations of the phrase, her glare piercing as she motions a lithe ‘ _ come hither _ ’ with a long, slender finger. 

“Name’s Elara, ma’am,” your words are polite and controlled, but your tone audibly drips with loathing.

“If you’ll humour me, there is something I’d like to discuss with you.”

With a flick of the wrist, she swirls the wine in her glass around, contemplating a reply. It’s almost as if everything she does is coated in fierce resplendence, from the smallest stirrings to the largest words, and you feel your knees go weak. 

Her hair, tied behind her head, floating down her shoulders, is a deep black, and her eyes the silvery grey of a polished sword. With the physique of a warrior and yet the grace and control of a ballerina, everything about her seems trained - ready at any moment - to kill.

Before you can prepare yourself, she speaks. 

“Fine - but make it quick. I’m busy.” She’s clearly not, nobody this high in fashionable society ever is, but you daren’t argue. Nobody argues with the Queen Bee. 

This works out in your favour, though, because that was never your plan.

Smiling, you narrow your eyes. In spite of her years of experience with the dishonest and distrustful, she’s taken the bait. 

For the first time ever, she’s visibly shaken from your expression. “What do you want?”

Time stops. In the blink of an eye, you hike up your skirts and grab the dagger strapped to your thigh, darting behind her in quick, fluid movements. You hold it to her throat, and the chatter below resumes as normal. 

Your words exuding malice, you whisper, your breath hot and wet, against her ear.

“I want my family, my home, my right to live back, you bitch.”

Without missing a beat, she draws a polished, silver revolver from the inside breast pocket of her coat. 

“If you fucking dare  _ skim _ me with that, commoner, you’re coming down with me.” 

She stands suddenly, taking you off guard, and pins you to the railing. The upper half of your body leans out into the open air, and one of her hands pins your wrist to the painted plaster, while the other points the gun to your chest. 

“Got it, sweetheart?  _ Elara~ _ ” 

Your name on her lips, sickly sweet and drawling, threatens to destroy you. Inhibitions dashed, your heart beating out of your chest, ironically more alive than you’ve ever been, you decide to make good of her offer.    
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I got it  _ real  _ good, you cunt.”

And you grab her shoulders and kick your weight off the back of the balcony.

* * *

Together, the two of you fall for an age. As you plummet to certain death, the closing song to the major motion feature of your life the horrified screams of the ballgoers, you look her in the eyes, all barriers between you broken by the finality of this moment.

And, staring back at you, is a real, human person. Someone, you think, in another life, in another time, perhaps, you could’ve made well with. You could’ve loved. 

Here, however, she doesn’t deserve it, and she never will. 

Scapula are what are left of our wings, you know. 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments/feedback GREATLY appreciated!!! 
> 
> i love u all <33


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